


A Neat and Elegant Solution

by Guilty_As_Battery_Charged



Category: game of thrones
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-24
Updated: 2019-05-24
Packaged: 2020-03-13 21:17:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,873
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18948838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Guilty_As_Battery_Charged/pseuds/Guilty_As_Battery_Charged
Summary: “A man taking a cup of wine before he proposes isn’t an uncommon thing, my lady. Steadies the nerves.” As if the swashbuckling sellsword-turned-lord-turned Master of Coin, at the moment down on one knee before her, had ever been nervous about anything in his life. Brienne/Bronn post-finale.





	A Neat and Elegant Solution

I’m as disappointed in the ending of Game of Thrones as everyone else but I’m determined to make the best of it. This idea occurred to me after seeing Bronn and Brienne together on the Small Council, as a way to further wrap up both their stories.

 **Disclaimer:** I do not own Game of Thrones.

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**A Neat and Elegant Solution**

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“Are you drunk?!”

“A man taking a cup of wine before he proposes isn’t an uncommon thing, my lady. Steadies the nerves.” As if the swashbuckling sellsword-turned-lord-turned Master of Coin, at the moment down on one knee before her, had ever been nervous about anything in his life.

“Are you _mad?!”_ Brienne tried again. Bronn of the Blackwater chuckled and hoisted himself back up to a standing position, realizing that an immediate and enthusiastic _yes_ wasn’t coming any time soon from the famous lady knight.

“What? You don’t like me?” he teased her, spreading out his arms, as if putting himself on offer for her inspection. “I’m not bad-looking, if I do say so myself. You could do a whole lot worse.”

She frowned, thoroughly unimpressed by his adventurer’s swagger, which was all decoration, just like his fine new garments, cut from rich cloth from the Reach. His many newly bestowed castle, lands, and titles provided him a _very_ comfortable income. “I barely know you.”

“We sit on the Small Council together,” he pointed out bluntly.

“Yes, and we discuss the rebuilding of the realm. Not each other.”

Bronn shrugged, as if that were no great obstacle to overcome. “Well, let’s fix that. Dine with me tonight, or tomorrow night, if it pleases my lady. I’m free.”

Brienne rolled her eyes and huffed in exasperation. Men who could not simply take _no_ for an answer, nor comprehend the concept of _no_ , was nothing unfamiliar to her. “What did he promise you?”

Bronn feigned insolence. “Who, my lady?”

“Lord Tyrion.” This was the Hand’s idea, clearly. A neat and elegant solution to two outstanding problems. Bronn would get the nobly born wife he was promised, and she would get a respectable marriage and a father for the bastard growing inside of her. The Lannister bastard, that everyone on the Small Council, and perhaps all of King’s Landing, knew about.

“Well, can you blame the little bugger for wanting his niece or nephew to grow up with a proper father this time?” Bronn asked boldly. Brienne’s face grew hot and red, and her answer was in her furious, indignant stride as she swiftly vacated the hall.

Bronn, raising his eyebrows, stared but didn’t run after her. He was not the type to do so, though a part of her wished he was as she slammed shut her bedchamber door. No one ever ran after her. Men ran away from her, and her from them. That was how it always was.

“He’s not a bad choice,” Tyrion insisted, almost pleadingly, when Brienne angrily confronted him later in his own chamber. “Beneath all that bravado is a decent man, one who’s willing to work hard for what he wants in life. That’s more than you can say for pretty much any other lordly suitor. And he respects you, as a fellow warrior and as his equal on the Council. That’s not an insignificant thing either.”

“He punched you in the face,” Brienne said.

“I deserved it. Trust me,” Tyrion replied. Brienne wanted to trust him. She wanted to believe that out of all the men in the Seven Kingdoms, Tyrion was the one who truly had her best interests in mind. Once, she had believed in another, who at the end had only fled from her arms, their bed, their one chance, and left her with a broken heart and a child on the way.

As if Tyrion could read her thoughts, he continued on. “Consider your future, Brienne. Consider your child’s future, and their standing in this new world we’re building. There are so many broken families, and so we must piece together new ones from the rubble that’s left.” He made a sweeping gesture over the detailed model of what would hopefully be King’s Landing, strong and resurrected, in the near future. At the moment, tragically, most of it still lay in ruin.

“Take a look at the finished puzzle and it makes perfect sense,” Tyrion implored her. “Bronn wants a wife. You need a husband so that your child can claim legitimacy. You two get along just fine on the Council, and have never had any reason to resent or even dislike each other. Many successful marriages have started on far less.”

Brienne was sullen and silent. To lighten the mood, Tyrion added, as a joke, “Unless, of course, you’d prefer to send for Tormund Giantsbane, in the North. From what I’ve heard, he’s still _desperately_ in love with you.”

Brienne shuddered as she remembered the loud, hairy, vulgar, odd-smelling, and perpetually drunk wildling who’d become besotted with her during the war, by no encouragement on her part. In comparison, Bronn was a woman’s dream come true.

“I will think it over,” she compromised at last. “But I promise nothing.”

Tyrion smiled kindly. “Very well, my lady. But decide soon, because it won’t be long before you start to show,” he reminded her.

There was a private dinner party in Tyrion’s chambers two nights later, and Brienne wasn’t the least bit surprised when she discovered that Tyrion had arranged for her and Bronn to sit together, side by side.

“My lady,” Bronn greeted her with cheeky courtesy, his eyes twinkling with good humour and no hard feelings at her initial, curt rejection.

“Lord Bronn,” she replied coolly and civilly, settling herself down in the chair next to him. He theatrically poured her a generous cup of wine, smirking to himself all the while. From his seat at the end of the long table, Tyrion watched them both closely over his own cup as he pretended to listen to what the rather dull representative from Volantis was droning on about.

To Brienne’s surprise, throughout the dinner Bronn didn’t bring up the matter of their possible betrothal even once, but rather entertained her with outrageous tales of his travels as a sellsword. Brienne, to her own surprise, found herself smiling and even chuckling on occasion. Eventually, she brought the evaded subject up herself, as the servants were carrying out the final course.

“You’ve had an exciting life,” she remarked, careful to keep her voice steady. All the wine she’d drunk was making her head swim a little. “Why do you want to settle down with a wife and children?”

Bronn saw the opening and took it. “Aye, every man craves the peace and comfort of a home eventually, my lady,” he told her plainly and honestly. “You get tuckered out after fighting and fucking around for so long, and soon your dreams are only that of a cup of wine, a warm fire…and a good woman to keep ya company, if she’s willing.”

Brienne couldn’t help herself. She blushed like a girl, a girl only just made aware that she was being courted. She closed her eyes and thought of the cruel trick played on her long ago as a very, very vulnerable girl, by that vicious gang of young lords who’d been out for a cheap laugh. She thought of Renly…kind, courteous, beautiful, regal Renly…and wanted to cry. She then thought of Jaime, and stopped herself from doing so.

After all the other guests had left and the table was cleared, they stayed behind, and Tyrion approached them both. “Well?” he asked.

Bronn and Brienne looked at each other. “It’s up to her,” Bronn said, shrugging. Now, he and Tyrion both looked at her.

“I’ll give you my answer in three days’ time,” Brienne finally agreed. It wasn’t the answer either man was hoping for, but it was the answer they had to accept.

Brienne felt cornered as she’d had when trapped in that pit with the bear. “What choice do I have?” she asked herself as she made her usual morning rounds of the demolished city the next day. People stared and whispered as she passed by on horseback with the men under her command. “If I have a bastard, I will lose everything I’ve worked so hard to gain.”

The next three days were spent outwardly performing her many duties and inwardly reconciling herself to the thought of marriage to a man she liked rather than loved. _Tyrion has a point. He’s not a bad choice._ She could respect a man who had painstakingly climbed his way to a lordship rather than inherited it. _Ser Bronn has a point too. He’s not bad looking at all._ He was lean and hard-muscled, the way a roughened sellsword should be, and he kept himself clean, a major point in his favor. She wouldn’t consider sharing a bed with him otherwise.

“What would he be like in bed?” she wondered, half curiously, half concernedly. He often visited whores, she knew. She asked Pod to find out for her, and find out he did…four hours after she’d sent him on the errand.

Never mind. He’d gotten her the information she wanted. “He doesn’t try for anything not paid for, my lady,” Pod reported. “He’s not rough with any of them. A lot of them actually like him. He makes them laugh.”

“Well, that’s one worry off my mind,” Brienne thought with dry humor. “I won’t have to enter my bedchamber fully armored on my wedding night.”

“Are you going to marry him, my lady?” Pod asked. He sounded worried. Bronn wasn’t exactly a prince. But then again, Brienne of Tarth could hold her own against him, easily. Pod was anxious for her happiness rather than for her safety.

“I don’t know, Pod,” Brienne answered truthfully. “But Tyrion is right. I have to marry someone. I don’t want my child to be a bastard, and carry that around all their life.”

“I-I could marry you,” Pod stammered out. Brienne bestowed on him a doting smile.

“Thank you, Pod, but no. I’m too old for you. And it would break the hearts of all your female friends.” She sighed and shook her head. She had only one day left to decide.

Generations later, lute players would sing songs of Brienne of Tarth’s bravery and prowess, with certain parts a tad exaggerated. Her battle with a ferocious bear-like monster, her heroic rescue of the Queen in the North from the demonic hounds from hell, the brandishing of her “enchanted” sword against the army of the dead, with the amorous Kingslayer by her side. But none of them would ever know or sing about how much courage it took her to seek out Bronn once she had made up her mind, on the evening of that final day, when the sun was gently setting and basking King’s Landing in a mild but comforting orange glow, like that of a candle by a bedside. She found him exactly where she expected to find him. In one of the makeshift taverns that had popped up almost miraculously during the restoration, surrounded by friends, drinking and laughing as if he didn’t have a care in the world, despite all his titles and responsibilities.

Surprisingly, though, he stood when he saw her, as did the others. They all knew who she was, and the respect she was due. Awkwardly, she cleared her throat. “Lord Bronn…” she began in a formal manner. “If you are not otherwise engaged, I would speak to you in private.”

“Excuse me, gentlemen. The lady awaits.” He shuffled his way off the bench and came to stand before her. “Shall we take the air?” he asked pleasantly.

Walking through the remains of King’s Landing at night was like walking through a strange dream. Brienne thought that if it was a dream, she could reassemble everything from memory, just by snapping her fingers. She could bring back Jaime too, in the same way, but real life didn’t allow such privileges. Bronn whistled as they strolled along, occasionally stopping to pick up a rock or a piece of rubble, turning it this way and that before tossing it aside. He was waiting for her to speak first.

Attempted to fill in the silence with small talk, he remarked, “Beautiful night, ain’t it? I like it best when it’s all stars and no dragons—”

“I accept your proposal,” Brienne said quickly, throwing the words outside the gates before they could be locked away inside forever. “I will marry you—”

Bronn gave a victorious hoot and punched his fist in the air. “I knew ya would!” he exclaimed, clasping his hands and rubbing them together delightedly. “The first lady knight in Westeros, and she’s gonna be my wife! Gods, am I a lucky bastard or what?!”

“—on two conditions,” Brienne finished, her stomach doing acrobatic flips inside of her. “Firstly, Tarth is mine, and will pass to my firstborn, mine and Jaime’s child,” Brienne stated firmly. “Highgarden will pass to…” She could feel her face burning up as she said it. “The first child you and I have.”

“As my lady wishes,” Bronn agreed at once. He had been a sellsword. He’d worked under contracts before, and marriage was a contract like any other. It made things easier when the terms were set down clearly. “We’ll get it all written up for good measure. And what’s the second condition?”

“The second condition is that you swear to be loyal to me,” Brienne said. Bronn raised a questioning “Are you serious?” eyebrow. “I don’t mean fidelity. I’m not an innocent girl—”

“I’ll say you’re not,” Bronn joked. Brienne rolled her eyes and decided to ignore that.

“I know you will still visit whores,” she said. “Clean ones, I hope, who won’t cause you any trouble. What _I’m_ asking for is to be able to trust you not to betray me at the nearest opportunity, if danger should arise again.”

“Why the hell would I?” Bronn demanded. “I’m a lord now, not a sellsword. I want to build a dynasty.” He grinned at her then, beseeching her to see the same bright and shining horizon he was looking at. “And that’s what you and I are gonna do, once we’re married. Build a dynasty together. Smarter than the Tyrells, mightier than the Baratheons, fiercer than the Martells, and damn luckier than the Lannisters. House Blackwater-Tarth. Motto, _‘From the bottom going upwards.’_ It’s going to be great. You’ll see.”

He took her hand then, and brought it to his lips to kiss with a surprising amount of tenderness. “Who knows? We might even fall in love someday. We already like each other, so not too shabby a start, don’t you agree, my lady?”

“I…I don’t agree with the motto,” Brienne admitted as he released her hand. She was beginning to feel a spark of his enthusiasm. They might turn out to be a good match after all. “Shouldn’t it be something more like…?”

She raked her mind to produce something that combined what both their houses had in common. Water. Armadas at war. The power of changing tides. Following wherever the wind blew. _“Sailing forward?”_ she suggested.

“Oooooo, _that_ I like! Let’s go with that one! That knocks ‘Growing strong’ out of the goddamn pit!” Brienne allowed herself to smile. “We might have to change Highgarden’s name to match.”

Brienne’s smile faltered. “The smallfolk might not like that.”

“The smallfolk don’t give a rat’s ass if the big fancy castle their lord eats and sleeps and shits in is named this or that. As long as we keep the rents fair, and make sure they all have food, they’re happy. And if they’re happy, we’re happy.”

Happy. That was a word Brienne had never dared to spar with. Duty? Honor? Tradition? Those were words she knew. Not happy, though. Never happy. Happiness was for people who didn’t always long for what they could never have. Happiness was for people who didn’t trick themselves into believing, even for a moment, that what they truly wanted really _was_ theirs, right before it was snatched away…

“So are we agreed?” Bronn asked. “We’re betrothed?”

“Huh?” He’d cut right into her cloud of thought. “Oh…yes. Yes, we’re betrothed.”

“Shall we kiss on it then?” He leaned in. Brienne didn’t step back, which he considered as good as consent. His mouth against hers was warm and tasted of wine, and his beard smelled of cloves.

 _My future husband._ House Blackwater-Tarth began that night with a kiss in a broken city, between two people who were not in love but were willing to try. Not a perfect beginning, but an optimistic one. The singers and maesters would tell it differently, though, as would Brienne and Bronn’s descendants. Bronn broke away and smiled at her. “I think we’ll make a good team, you and I.”

Content. That was the word Brienne allowed herself to accept. If not happy, she could be content as Ser Brienne Blackwater-Tarth, Lady Paramount of the Reach. “I think so too,” she replied.

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  **The End**

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